


and all this longing

by laskaris



Series: tales from the dreaming sea [1]
Category: Exalted
Genre: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, POV Second Person, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 06:10:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5817139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laskaris/pseuds/laskaris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>the rain seldom stops, in Champoor, and even when it doesn’t rain, the sky is dark beneath the shadow of  Teneshpau ’s wings. you have never known the sun. </i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>In unending night, a God-Blooded child grows up and learns lessons from his father: how to deceive, how to steal, how to hold secrets close, and that he'll never be loved unconditionally. </p><p> </p><p>  <i>you have only ever known the sun as one of His Chosen.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	and all this longing

the rain seldom stops, in Champoor, and even when it doesn’t rain, the sky is dark beneath the shadow of Teneshpau ’s wings. you have never known the sun. 

***

you have your father’s blue hair and your mother’s delicate porcelain beauty, your mother’s eyes. you are small like her, slight, with pale flesh arranged over lovely bones: it’s your beauty that makes your father love you, before your sweet lying tongue or quick mind become apparent, because your parent only loves what is useful to him and discards the rest. 

and you, you long to be loved, your heart aches for affection. it’s a longing that fades around the edges as you grow and realize that your parent will never love you unconditionally, but will never quite go away. this world is unkind, to those like you: you, and your mother before you. 

you know your parent thinks your mother was a fool. you know so little about her: that she had a gentle heart, that she was beautiful, that you look like her, that she wanted to be loved, and that she was a fool. 

_(if she was a fool, then what about me?)_ you never quite dare to ask. your parent never talks about her in anything more than edges, a shadow. 

Teneshpau’s’s smile is sun-warmed water, fond, when you ask about her, years later. “Your mother was very brave,” your queen says, and offers you a blade for the rest of her answer. “And wished for you to have this.”

The hilt of the knife is cold in your fingers: you smile and politely thank her. 

“She would have loved you very much.” Teneshpau says, and you know what goes unsaid: _if she ever had the chance._

***

you line your eyes with kohl, wrap yourself in clinging blue silks that show nothing and reveal everything. you craft an illusion: you are elegant, you are demure, you smile serene and sweet, always in control of yourself. no one wants to know the emptiness in your heart nor see the shattered ghosts of relinquished dreams in your eyes. you are beautiful, and the men that court you do not hear or see your lies. 

sometimes, your patrons are cruel. sometimes, they are kind. sometimes, they tell you that they love you. you know the truth: they only love the illusion you have created. you steal their hearts; you steal their secrets. their unworn gifts, pretty trinkets meant to adorn a pretty doll and nothing more, line your jewelry box. 

_(sometimes, you lie next to a particularly kind man, who whispers to you that he loves you, and dream, even if only for a moment, that he means to say those words to you)_

***

_(you cannot decide if you love or hate your parent. you love and hate him both, in equal measure, and know that he will never truly love you. he loves you with conditions: when you are useful, when you are worthy. you do your duty to him, still loyal, serve as one of his courtesan-spies, as he asked when you were old enough, and you hate every moment of it. you are beautiful and clever and see much, and are the best of his house: he expects no less from a child that he chose to keep._

_his river is wide and deep and dark. you will never forget that._

_he taught you much, but the most enduring thing he taught you is this: unconditional love exists, you think, maybe. but what hope is there for you, when your own father, who should love you best, doesn’t?)_

***

you come downstairs, and there is a man at the bar. it’s not as though this isn’t anything other than a common occurrence, both in general and this specific man. he comes fairly often, this princeling from one of the many petty kingdoms of the Dreaming Sea, and what he chooses to do with his kingdom’s money is none of your concern. he has never looked on you with lust, which is pleasant, for his eyes are only for women, and he only wants to talk to you. 

so, he talks, and you listen, and pour him wine. he needs someone to listen more then he needs a partner for the night, though he’ll go with one of the girls anyway - probably Tien, her smile is bright enough to fill a room with light and her laughter full of genuine joy- and you listen. he talks of distant things that you will never see. his heart is weary and his mind bored: ennui, jaded. you’ve seen his type before. 

“Your father loves you,” you say, at last, and try not to be envious. “Listen well to what he says.” 

you aren’t sure if he listens to your advice or not: he goes with Tien, and she is giggly and even more cheerful the next morning. a _very_ good night, you can guess, and she already enjoys her job. but after he leaves, he doesn’t come back - and he’s not seen at any of the other houses he’s known to frequent, either. 

***

you hear about how a member of one of the many gangs in Champoor - _many_ gangs, because there are no shortage of them in the shrouded streets and mazes of alleys- has actually negotiated a peace between all of them. well, _former_ member, rather, now. he’s made a lot of enemies, by his bold action, and you hide your secret smile because your father is angry. how many schemes of his did that man send awry? you don’t know.

***

the last gift that your father ever gives you is a dress. it’s shimmering and blue and cut the same as everything else in the wardrobe he has commissioned for you, but this piece is special: it’s not quite silk. it clings and drapes like silk, but is also flexible and strong like steel: you have never been and never will be a warrior, but you know armor when it’s in your hands. 

was he, in his own way, trying to protect you from what was to come? even if only because you were useful to him and he had invested too much time in you to let you die so easily. you don’t know. you will never know.

***

your father is dead. he had a meeting: you were to be present for it, if silent. a pretty distraction, you supposed. you don’t remember anything beyond initial pleasantries. your father is dead.

all you know is this: he had a meeting. you were present. you don’t remember much about it at all, but by the end of the meeting, your father was dead, sunlight ignited your veins, and the room was torn apart. 

all you know is this: your father is dead. 

***

_(you don’t remember this. you will never remember this. an age ago, a shattered constellation wiped the chosen of the stars from all memory. memory cannot hold them. memory cannot bind them._

_your memory cannot hold these moments, this man. you don’t remember the tall, austerely beautiful man in white and blue, with long black hair and purple eyes that reflected the night sky. the true face behind the disguise he wore. you don’t remember the way he smiled at you, a brief fragment of apology you will never remember. an apology for what? you will never know. you will never remember._

_you don’t remember the moment he asked, the mildest-voiced demand, that your father submit to judgment. you don’t remember the moment he tried to run, nor the sound a starmetal sword makes, meteoric iron ringing against steel, as it is drawn. you don’t remember the fight, nor how you hid under a table, trying desperately to find somewhere even approaching safe._

_you don’t remember the moment you realized that your father was fighting some kind of Exalt: not a Dragon-Blooded, not one of the shapechanging Anathema, but something else entirely, that glowed purple. you don’t remember the moment you pulled a knife out of your hair, nothing more than a stiletto hairpin: you hated your father, but you loved him, too, and in that moment, love and loyalty won out. you don’t remember throwing the knife at the Exalt’s back, nor how he dodged, twisting nimbly aside, and not the moment when Sol Invictus lit your veins afire with shadowed sunlight._

_you don’t remember the moment your father died. you don’t remember the way the Sidereal - not that you even knew the term - swore, sheathed his sword, and made his escape. you don’t remember, but that's fine - he doesn’t remember your face, either. not your face, not your body, not the way you dressed or moved or the way you wept. all he knows about you is that you were Chosen of the Sun, one of the hidden ones, who live and work beneath a darkened sky._

_you don’t remember. you don’t remember any of this.)_

***

you mourn your father. you mourn him and you are angry. you cannot decide if you are angry that he is dead, that he was murdered, or whether you are simply angry that you didn’t get to kill him yourself. you loved him, but you hated him, too. 

one of his rivals takes over the house. some of the courtesans leave, go elsewhere, find another place to work. you leave, too, pack your things and find somewhere else to stay. you never really wanted to be a courtesan in the first place, you didn’t like the work, and now that your father is gone, you have nothing binding you to the profession. 

you have other skills. you can find something else to do. and it’s not long before you have another job offer, anyway. Teneshpau knows that another Solar has Exalted in her domain: the first, the man who negotiated the treaty between the gangs, works on his own. You, on the other hand, take the job that she offers: you serve her as a spy, and as a spy alone despite your other skills. such was _your_ demand, and she acceded quite willingly. 

_(she is venal, she is corrupt, but she is no fool)_

you smile, and you bow to her. all things considered, you rather like working for her. 

_(someday, you will find yourself. someday, you will find what you want out of life. someday, now that you have the room to grow-)_

***

the rain seldom stops in Champoor, and even when it doesn’t rain, the sky is dark beneath the shadow of Teneshpau ’s’s wings. you have only known the sun as one of His Chosen, his sunlight running through your veins, power thrumming in your blood, though never bright, only dark and shadow-silent. 

it matters little. you open your umbrella, and step out into the unending night. 

**Author's Note:**

> \- backstory for my Night Caste, Iseul Lien, who is currently being played in a 3e game. So there will be more fic with him (and the rest of the Circle) coming at some point. Hopefully soon.  
> \- Very brief cameos by two of the other Circle members: the princeling who Lien talks to at the bar is the Zenith, while the (mentioned) ormer gang member who brokered peace is the Eclipse. Our Dawn and Twilight are Birdwomen Not Appearing In This Fic, though they will be appearing in later fics.


End file.
